Tuesday, January 24, 2006

the cringe-factor

Ouch. Sometimes being a human is enough to make me want to metamorph into being a cuddly toy, or perhaps a crash helmet.

Take now. Or don't if you would rather not. Just change the url and pass by.

Anyway, here I am, sitting in a cringed up position - I mean, I'm twenty eight, who am I kidding?

Myself allegedly.

Here I am, betwixt my Yoga Class, my Acting Class, my radio show, and my dull job. And now, I'm applying for a job which:

a. I won't get
b. If I did even get, I would be too chicken to take
c. Could be potentially embarrasing if anyone knew about it. Anyone who knows me that is. I doubt anyone reading this knows me.

Blah, bluh, ick.

Where did I go wrong?

Until the age of thirteen, I was an affable type. Then on stage, doing a mime (oh the shame), my friends stood up in the audience and skwalled 'Aoife - there's Aoife'.

Now, I would take a bow. Nah, I just wouldn't be miming at all.

And yet, the exhibitionist lurks within this upstanding librarian-esque person I've become.

Like ying and yang or possibly Jekyll and Hyde, I live in a state of flamboyant existential angst.

A number of years ago I came to the conclusion that I am a dapper gay man trapped in the body of a oversized girl.

Bluke*

(Bl-uke: combination of blah and puke, to feel stupid and nothing whilst also being compelled to vomit - commonly experienced by camp women who wish they still smoked, anything really)

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